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A poem written after the passing of my mother. |
![]() ![]() ![]() Winter is ebbing towards us all a, stern routine, a relentless stranger, sowing his will encompassing us all. Frigid... Lethargic - drawing closer - Relentless, sluggardly in march, corrupted skin- tourniquet tight, around dark, bone fingers, the same that claw deep into the essence of the land beneath us. Ancient. Corrupted in, decay blue-gray skeletal roughed gauntlets, eagerly tighten their grip; on warn slippery reins... until the moment comes, when, you, just can't, breathe.... A ghostly rider in full stride, inevitable dance partner whose thundering hooves beat the ground towards us from the moment we emerge into this world. The shade of absolute dread, a churning gut, gray plumes bleeding steady from drab flailing rags, over a lost son, the few of kin, coming, pounding of thunder- broth spilling mouth- Mother's time upon us, A foot to the ledge ready for some time to dive into the ether. The one who brings illness with each stride, sopping wet hooves- land shuddering under a raven-black cloak- in ribbons. Tattered, filthy from an ocean of time- drug through snow, mud, until rag tails flow the end a hound at toe. A snowy farewell grief flowing through the cold of winter a deep-cutting chill, a shadow across the land, wandering, lurking , through the deep green wet of forest darkness. Winter is upon us, wet, unceasing panting of the hunt, teeth, hunger, drool, Aching anticipation!- Your blood red petals now nothing but, rags. The towering pitch black gates are closed. Hounds restless have her scent, the end in motion. Time relentlessly weighs on, The moment is near. A ghostly touch, barely kissing each petal. A faint crooning- familiar lullabies, Words but wondering whispers lost in the dark. The cold long slumber is near. Out of lush black soil she shot up, reaching in silent despair, Every ethereal fiber of your existence. Why so much effort? Why so much pain? So much... fear? For something in her life- she never saw.... Just a bit of warmth, among jackals. Something true, within their endless disdain. To be loved-appreciated... were never on her bill. In endless rows, Trapped in Father's perfect symmetry. The unspoken norm was uniformity, They were fed equally, Drank from the same creek, "The same holds the forest at bay..." As things were, Mom, was a bit different. We all observed- Her essence becoming sadness, Her petals giving in- to droop under the weight of life. II. You were my only, amongst thousands red in the breeze, now, ashes where fire preserved a withered poppy. I could’ve been a better son… Hrafnar |